


Ipse venena bibas

by heartcools (bluedreaming)



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Gen, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming/pseuds/heartcools
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sungyeol hasn't spoken in five years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ipse venena bibas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quackyeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quackyeon/gifts).



> I made two images for this story. [1](http://i.imgur.com/NeVA7yJ.jpg) [2](http://i.imgur.com/0bXqBb5.jpg)  
> Listen to [Clockworking](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yl_gzcvjS1c), by María Huld Markan Sigfúsdóttir, performed by Nordic Affect, while you read this.
> 
> You can now [listen to this](http://theblueintheday.tumblr.com/post/141817784831) read aloud as an auto-podfic.

 

 

He dreams of speaking, and when he wakes, throat hoarse, mouth dry, he finds himself sitting up in bed, back ramrod straight, the echo of a voiceless scream still echoing through the pounding silence.

Even when he's sleeping, even when his nightmares take over, he never lets his body go.

Sungyeol hasn't spoken in five years.

 

 

The halls of St. Benedict's University are as noisy as ever, but Sungyeol doesn't pay any attention to the chatter, the students roaming by, arms slung over each other's shoulders. The flimsy paper cup leaks heat from the coffee that's already half gone, but only the second of the day. Every sip takes him further from his dreams, washing them out until until the grounds at the bottom of the cup are left.

There's a buzz at his hip; Sungyeol slows, slipping a hand into his pocket to check his phone, and someone collides into him from behind. He stumbles, phone slipping out of his pocket with an ominous crunch, leaving him to stare it for a moment, the sound of the corridors receding as he looks at his only method of communication.

A broken phone is like a boot to the neck. He swallows, leaning down to survey the damage as the sound rushes back in and nimble fingers swoop down, wrapping around the phone before he reaches it.

"My bad," a voice says, and Sungyeol looks up to see another student, black hair, pretty face. "I'm late for orientation; are you. . .?" He tips his head, gazing from beneath long eyelashes, and Sungyeol feels a sudden burst of dislike, completely illogical, but so strong that he almost steps back.

The student is waiting for an answer, but all Sungyeol can give him is a shrug, when his voice is in the fingers wrapped around the phone. It doesn't look too beaten up at first glance, but Sungyeol remembers the crunch, reaching out to grab it from the student's grasp.

The screen is black, and Sungyeol is left pressing the home button to no avail. His mouth tastes sour _—the same taste that the words left in his mouth, after—_ he swallows, getting his thoughts back on track, heading for the College since it was probably a message from the Dean and she doesn't appreciate tardiness.

He's already forgotten about the student, just another face after he's stopped paying attention, so he's startled when cool fingers brush the skin of his arm, a muffled phrase he doesn't quite catch and the student has the broken phone in his left hand, pressing the home button with the index finger of his right.

Sungyeol's about to—not open his mouth, never open his mouth—but the screen flickers on.

There's a soft laugh, fingers brushing his shoulders as he stands in the hallway, the student slipping back into the stream of the other first years parting around him like the red sea. Sungyeol's used to being the boulder in the river, the sixteen-year-old in university, fingers clutching a flimsy coffee cup, mouth closed around the words he'll never say.

Not anymore.

It's been years since he was sixteen. A lot of things have stayed the same. He's used to it.

 

 

"Welcome back," the Dean says, smiling as she looks at Sungyeol from across her wide oak desk. The smile is less for his benefit than her own, because Fan Bingbing—superficially the Dean of the Department of Hermeneutics, which would be illogical except that this is St. Benedict's, where there are more layers than what's simply visible on the surface—has been overseeing Sungyeol in an intensive course of study where there are no marks except pass or fail.

Sungyeol has gotten an incomplete for three years running now, and he's looking at a fourth. He shrugs at the Dean, draining his coffee and wondering how soon he can sneak out for another one. There's a perpetual cloud of fatigue hovering in his bones, beneath the surface of his skin, a fission of tension that keeps his heart racing just a little too quickly for comfort, but that's how he likes it—ever since—and it keeps him from dreaming. Too much, at any rate.

He glances at his phone, where the schedule of his "cover" studies, for which he randomly chose computer science, is on the screen, though it seems ridiculous to call it a cover when he's almost finished his undergraduate degree, and still hasn't even moved on from day one of the discipline he's actually here for.

"This is the fourth year," the Dean says, and keeps smiling. Sungyeol still isn't entirely sure what she can do, but it must not be related to weaponizing her smile which is sharp enough to cut. He crumples the paper cut in his hand, thumb flicking over the rim in counterpoint to his heartbeat, instead of answering. She can't make him open his mouth.

He gets along just fine in his "cover" computer science and no one even blinks when he doesn't say anything. Talking is optional, in a computer lab where the clacking of keyboards fills the room, and progress is measured by compiling lines of code into debugged programs.

The Dean taps a fingernail against the surface of the desk, just once. "We have a new student this year," she says, and her smile grows even sharper, if that's possible. Sungyeol shrugs. The Department of "Hermeneutics" is deceptively small, when most of the students live off campus, some as far as across the globe, and he's managed not to interact with anyone apart from the occasional shoulder brushes as he leaves or arrives for an appointment with the Dean.

He doesn't really see how this has will have any bearing on him at all.

"You," the Dean says, and a frisson of unease streaks down his spine as he stiffens, but it's too late, it's always too late— _he opened his mouth_ —"are you going to be his mentor."

NO shout his fingers, flying over the screen of his phone as he holds it in her face, but the Dean doesn't glance down at the letters, keeping her gaze locked firmly on his for a moment that hangs uncomfortably in the air, the last breath before the noose tightens, as Sungyeol's mind races, before she waves him away.

Dismissed.

 

 

Except he can't ignore the Dean, not when she doesn't want to be ignored. His phone buzzes all morning, not in frustrated bursts in an attempt to communicate, because the Dean doesn't do frustrated. She gives orders, and expects them to be followed through, and he can choose to ignore them.

Even if he doesn't really have a choice, the fact remains that he does, which is a difference that Sungyeol holds close to his chest as he downs another cup of coffee, heart fluttering behind his ribcage.

_The hot sun beats overhead, only serving to exacerbate a headache that's been lingering around his temples for the whole day. Sungyeol is frustrated with himself, with everyone, with puberty that's embarrassing and annoying and he hates how his voice cracks and today he didn't just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. It feels like he woke up on the wrong side of himself, the itchy feeling of something waiting beneath his skin._

_"Hey," ■■■■ says, walking along the docks on the way home, swinging his arms as Sungyeol plods ahead, kicking a discarded pop can only to catch up and repeat the process, the sound of aluminium grating on stone. He's not listening to the sound of his friend babbling on and on about something or other._

_The sun is shining on his eyes; he blinks, staggers to the side when ■■■■ swerves into him, tripping over a crack in the stone since he's too busy talking to look where he's going._

_"Hey," ■■■■ says again, instead of apologizing, "so I was thinking about the—" and all of a sudden it's too much. Everything's too much, the sun and the feeling crawling beneath his skin and the voicemail from his mum waiting to be listened to and ■■■■ who just keeps talking and talking—_

_"Shut up," Sungyeol says. Everything is buzzing, his fingers are tingling and it feels like his skull is a second away from exploding; he can't hear anything at all and doesn't hear the sudden silence, just the feeling, eyes staring at his back and he doesn't want to turn around to look, the words already curdling in his mouth because it's not ■■■■'s fault that everything is wrong today. The guilt settles like a stone in his stomach, and instead of taking it back, different words burst out of his chest._

_"You're always talking and talking and talking and talking and I just—I don't know—leave me alone—go jump off the pier and talk to the fish instead." That's a little thing between them, that ■■■■ could talk the fish into jumping onto the shore to escape him._

_Sungyeol keeps walking, keeps walking away, gritting his teeth against the pain in his head._

_He only stops when he hears the splash._

The professor stops talking; Sungyeol looks up to see a student runner holding a slip of paper and he slips the tablet into his bag, standing up before the professor has time to search the expectant student faces. She nods at him. He inclines his head. Professor Son is a great teacher and has nothing to do with the Department of Hermeneutics at all.

Sungyeol slips out of the door as the lecture resumes, letting the door fall silently shut behind him.

 

 

He's expecting a—actually he has no idea what he's expecting, fingers curled tight around another coffee, the burning liquid scalding the soft skin of his fingers through the flimsy paper. It feels like anger, so Sungyeol can focus on all the reasons the Dean can't make him do this.

He has his phone out, thumb poised to tap out an angry response when he storms through the door of her office, neglecting to knock, and this time he's the one who bumps into him from behind, the student from the hallway, the one who almost rendered him mute.

In a manner of speaking.

The student looks at him, eyes widening slightly in surprise which he quickly folds back into calmness, his gaze precise. The Dean, of course, doesn't even register the rude interruption, finishing her explanation despite the fact that neither of the students in the room are looking at her. She knows they're listening.

"And here, as I already told you, Sungjong, is Sungyeol. I've assigned him to be your mentor here, at least for the first bit."

Sungyeol meets Sungjong's eyes, sees him hold out his hand in his peripheral vision. He's lifting his hand, no sense in not being polite, when a sudden melodic trill fills the room. Sungyeol pauses, coffee slopping over the rim of the paper cup in his left hand; he doesn't wince when it burns his skin.

The trill sounds again, and twice more in the time Sungjong takes his extended hand back to slip a phone out of his pocket, flicking the silence button on the side, but Sungyeol has already seen the notification screen flashing. Sungjong seems to work quickly in the friends department.

The NO is just a tap away, as Sungyeol flashes it at the the Dean, the heavy wood door falling shut in Sungjong's face as Sungyeol leaves.

 

 

Sungjong seems to get the hint and doesn't go looking for Sungyeol, but he still sees him around, in the cafeteria, chatting with a small group of girls, at a table in the coffee shop by the town square, studying in the library with a stack of books. Sungyeol wonders, vaguely, what his "cover" degree is in, or if it's more than a cover, like his own, but mostly he just ignores Sungjong altogether.

Sungjong always seems to notice him, lifting a hand in a brief wave. Sungyeol always turns away, heading in the opposite direction before anything can possibly happen.

"You seem to be labouring under the delusion that I assigned Sungjong to you in some kind of self-help effort on your behalf," the Dean says at their next appointment, because Sungyeol can't keep avoiding her forever. His scholarship is dependant upon the Department of Hermeneutics, and thought it's not that he's lacking the money— _the voicemail from his mum waiting to be listened to_ —his admittance to St. Benedict's was arranged directly through the aforementioned department and if they officially withdraw him, he'll have to reapply for admittance, and take this semester's classes all over again in the winter term.

That's not an option he'd like to consider, which leaves them at an impasse, the Dean sitting behind her heavy wood desk, and Sungyeol perched on a chair in the office, clutching his coffee that's emptying far too quickly for comfort.

You can't make me talk he taps onto his phone, flashing the screen across the desk.

"I can't make you," the Dean says, "but I am here, I have always been here, to help you overcome your fear in a controlled environment."

It's not safe Sungyeol types for the umpteeth time, his thumb pressing into the LED screen, his frustration unvoiced and only visible by the way the pressure of his finger discolours the screen for a moment with each press.

"It wasn't your fault," the Dean says, but it's futile. Sungyeol's heard too many platitudes for another one to do anything other than slide right off.

It doesn't matter he types. He's still dead. He stands up to leave, but she adds a parting remark, like always, the Dean has to have the last word.

"Haven't you ever considered how you might be able to help someone else?" she says, the rest of her paragraph cut off as the door swings shut behind him, almost catching his heels. Sungyeol drains his coffee cup; it's cold now, the flavour bitter on his tongue. When he drops it in the nearest wastebin, it sounds like falling.

 

 

Campus is always loud before the holidays, what with the euphoria of students relieved to be past cramming for exams, and the general ruckus of so many people heading home for the season. Sungyeol doesn't go home, not when he has no one to go to. His mother is probably in Jeddah, or maybe Shanghai, and there's no one else.

There's a strange air hanging around on campus though, a kind of chill that he hasn't felt before. Sungyeol doesn't usually listen to much more that his lectures, but he happens to meet Jongin in the corridor the day before the last exam date, and Jongin gives him a glance before flashing out and back with a cup of coffee. Sungyeol looks down, and realizes that the paper cup in his hand is empty.

"Here," Jongin says, reaching out with the steaming paper cup as he gently brushes Sungyeol's arm with his fingers, nudging him in the direction of a wide windowsill where they end up perching, Sungyeol sipping his coffee and Jongin biting his lip.

"I haven't really seen you around,"Jongin finally says; Sungyeol tips his head apologetically, but they both know that Jongin, well in control of his jumping is, for all intents and purposes, a graduated alumnus of of the Department of Hermeneutics, completely focused on his medical studies. "You look like you need more sleep."

As usual Sungyeol types, the corner of his mouth twitching, and Jongin laughs, bumping Sungyeol's arm with his shoulder. Sungyeol doesn't see Jongin much, perhaps once or twice a semester, especially as Jongin, though younger, enrolled in St. Benedict's only a year after Sungyeol, zipping through the "supplemental" lessons with the Dean, and he's now occupied with his own studies. It's nice to see him; though they've never been close enough to be friends, Jongin has never looked at him like the other "Hermeneutics" students.

Sungyeol takes a few more sips of coffee, and they sit, watching the snowflakes falling outside the window for a moment, before Jongin glances back at Sungyeol, brow furrowed.

"I've been hearing some. . .things from the other kids," he finally says, tapping his fingers restlessly on the stone. Jongin isn't one to gossip, and Sungyeol's arm pauses before he lowers the paper cup back to the sill. He nods, waiting for Jongin to continue.

"Have you met one of the new students?" Jongin asks, turning to catch Sungyeol's eye. "Sungjong?"

Sungyeol nods, surprised, and then shrugs. He doesn't really know anything about him, apart from the fact that he seems to be popular.

"Have you heard his nickname?" Jongin asks, biting his lip; Sungyeol shakes his head. He knows they call him Metatron behind his back sometimes, but he honestly doesn't care.

He's never talking again anyway.

"They call him _God_ ," Jongin says, "but no one seems to know why."

Sungyeol stares at him for a moment. It sounds like a joke, but Jongin's gaze is steady. The hallway is silent, stretching out empty on either side of them, and far in the distance he an 

He remembers the Dean's voice for moment, "You seem to be labouring under the delusion that I assigned Sungjong to you in some kind of self-help effort on your behalf," but the new information doesn't do anything more to illuminate her meaning.

Jongin's pocket buzzes, and he groans, slumping against the wall. "I have to go," he says, mouth softening into a grin as he slides off the sill. Sungyeol lifts a hand, ready to wave, but Jongin pauses for a moment before he leaves.

"You be careful, okay?" he says, and Sungyeol nods, watching as Jongin recedes down the hallway.

His coffee is cold, and there's a chill hanging in the air now, as an invisible draft slips cold fingers down his back. Sungyeol shivers, and heads back to his room.

 

 

He wakes in the pitch dark without remembering falling asleep, fingers scrabbling between a tangle of sheets as, disoriented, he tries to find the switch to the bedside lamp that he always keeps on. There's a pressure in his head, like an impending headache, but as he flicks the switch with the tips of his fingers, only to discover that the power must be out, Sungyeol realizes that the pressure is coming from outside of him.

Trying to detangle himself from the sheets, he ends up falling out of bed, crashing his head into his nightstand as a glass of water topples off and crashes onto the floor; he can feel the shards brushing his skin, water splashing on the floor. He can't see anything, but he's had this same room for years and he manages to pull himself up by the end of the bed. He can't find his slippers, they must have gotten kicked under the bed in the ruckus and he decides to make for the door instead, hands outstretched, the bare soles of his feet sliding over the floorboards until fingertips brush the wall.

When he tries the light switch, the florescent bulb explodes, imprinting a bright green burst onto the backs of his eyelids as he rocks backwards. The air is thick with the smell of ozone, a lightning storm in the middle of winter and Sungyeol swallows, green blooming in the dark as his phone buzzes, the screen lighting up from where it's plugged into the wall, flooding the room with light for a breath before it goes dark again. He makes for the bureau, almost knocking the phone onto the ground in his rush to have it in his hands.

When he pulls it away in his hands, the charging cable detaching from the wall, the system bar at the top still says its charging.

Your services are required the message from the Dean says. Sungyeol turns on the flashlight function and leaves his room.

"They call him _God_ ," he remembers Jongin saying. The small light from his phone hardly parts the dark, and the hallways are empty of students.

 

 

Sungyeol heads for the College, though he has no idea where he's actually supposed to be going, and there are no more messages from the Dean. His bare feet are cold against the flagstones, and he desperately wants a cup of coffee, but he keeps walking.

He's heading for the tunnels since there's no way he's going outside, barefoot in December, when a sound stops him in his tracks; the wind is howling in the entrance hall, the crystal prisms hitting each other, some falling down to the tiled floor below and shattering on the mosaic.

"Sungyeol," a voice says, and he jumps, fumbling as the phone almost slips between clammy fingers before he sees the Dean standing on the staircase. In contrast to the rumpled disarray of his pajamas and bare feet, she's dressed the way she normally is, slacks and a blazer, and her expression is grim.

What's happening? he types into his phone, sending a message because she's too far away to read the screen. Sungyeol watches the phone in her hand light up, her eyes dip down to glance at the screen.

"You've been remiss in your mentoring duties," the Dean says. A tangled twist of frustration lodges itself in Sungyeol's stomach, at the way she never says things clearly, always expects too much of him and doesn't explain anything.

What are you talking about? he starts to type, when the sound of glass shattering breaks his concentration and he looks towards the wall of windows surrounding the door, only to realize that the frames are empty, as a gust of angry wind carries a rush of snow over them, the stinging particles scouring his face as he staggers back.

"The Department of Hermeneutics requires your services," the Dean says, and Sungyeol squints around the snow melting in his eyelashes and down his cheeks to follow the gesture of her arm.

Outside, there's a blot against the snow, beneath the light of a moon that's larger than it should be, a crackling in the air, and the dark spot keeps growing. Sungyeol descends the steps, and starts across the mosaic, trying to balance on the edge of his feet to avoid the glass as he realizes who it is, standing in a circle on the lawn, because it is lawn.

The snow is melting, an ever widening circle of darkness, and when he steps through the cold and his feet touch the green, he can feel the grass beneath his feet straightening.

It's coming back to life.

The air buzzes, thick with pressure, and there's a crackling above him as he stands there at the edge of the widening circle. Sungjong is crouched in the centre, curled into himself, arms wrapped over his head and Sungyeol still doesn't like him.

He doesn't know what the Dean is expecting him to do, and he swipes across the screen of of his phone, only to realize that it's gone black.

Sungyeol remembers the student in the hallway, his phone crunching onto the ground.

"Sungjong needs your help." The Dean's voice comes from behind him, and he can see her standing in the doorway. The air is warm, here in the circle, and Sungyeol's mouth tastes like ashes.

He knows what she wants.

He doesn't want to do it.

He can't.

Sungjong is rocking back and forth on the ground, and Sungyeol remembers the sound of a splash breaking the silence, looks down at his feet. He can feel the glass embedded in his skin, the sting.

He balls his fingers into fists, knuckles white with his grip on nothing at all as he opens his mouth.

"Stop," he says, and everything goes quiet.

 

 

"So," the Dean says, sitting behind her desk. She looks as unrumpled as ever, frowning at Sungyeol's wrinkled shirt and the slippers he's wearing because of the Elastoplasts overlapping across the soles of his feet. It's winter break; there aren't any classes right now and Sungyeol doesn't care much anyway.

He glances at Sungjong out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the chair next to him and even worse for wear than he is.

The Dean taps her finger, once, against the surface of her desk. "I think it wise that we begin again. Sungyeol, this is Sungjong, your new mentee. Sungjong, this is Sungyeol, your new mentor."

This time, there are no interruptions, as Sungyeol reaches out to shake Sungjong's hand, not because he wants to please the Dean but because he knows what it's like to do things without meaning to.

"Thanks," Sungjong says, and he sounds sincere. Sungyeol looks at him, at the puffy skin beneath his eyes, the ragged lips. He looks about as tired as Sungyeol feels, and it's like he's seeing a different Sungjong, beneath the layer of smiles and soft laughter and crowd of friends.

Sungyeol doesn't say hi, but he doesn't need to. Sungjong has already heard his voice.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the _vade retro satana_.  
>  This was originally written for [ifntvalentine](http://ifntvalentine.livejournal.com/) and posted [here](http://ifntvalentine.livejournal.com/5105.html).  
>  **prompt:** A Sungjong/Sungyeol of any rating, of any Super Power!Au set in a school/university preferably. (sorry it's vague but you can literally do whatever you want with it)


End file.
